when she is assured of his safety, her vision returns to the machinery before them. a hulking mass of mechanical flesh, breathing in their sacred spice. a shadow spills over her features, and she reaches downwards, a hand grazing the hilt of her crysknife.

‘ You move too slow. ’ Chani hisses, ducking beneath the shade of rock. The sanctuary of night grows weak, surrendering to the tilt of the axis, the pull of the sun. They had only a mere hour or two now, else they’d find themselves stranded in the garish light. Victim to the infernal temperature. Already the air around them has begun to sharpen, and she can feel the heat begin to tease her exposed flesh, coiling itself around her. Chani, however, remains measured in each movement, calm as the drifting sand.

‘ and you think yourself able to assume the places where I belong? ’ chani’s brow raises, clicking her tongue in annoyance. she finds herself constantly surprised by the attitude of non-fremen, each more presumptuous than the last, bloated by the wealth of their water.

‘ I should not think so, Ryland. The desert is no place for those not born from its sands. ’ Chani’s answer is direct, followed with a short shake of her head. Though he has proven himself sincere, intelligent — his body weighs heavily with the privilege of water. Her beloved dunes of Arrakis would provide no sanctuary, and it is not her duty to teach him their ways.